Dear Joseph, thank you so much for the appreciation of my "Italian into
English" attempts at translating. The bc who criticized my versions is my
ex-boyfriend-poet who things that "the english versions of your poems does
not work, or at least seems odd in a way not necessarily intentional". But
I am sure he says this to discourage me from challenging in his specialist
anglo-saxion field . Well, he too several times tried to write in Intalian,
and did always work...if I remember well. But I perseverate, since I cannot
be easly discouraged. I like a lot using English in poetry. It is such an
elastic language to my ear. Another friend, Larry Jaffe, (the newyorker
editor of Poetic Licence) yesterday was so kind as to send me his
suggestions and amendments so I now have a better version of "About my
mother", and here it is: (thank you, Larry).
“About my mother”
Don’t ask me why
the unfathomable eye that watches me
matches the washbasin above which
I used to comb my hair
at dawn while being immersed
in my mother’s inconclusive speech
I have transcribed her lips
and recalled her voice with a set plan
as an eye fixed a pointing finger
of a god a police officer
although I stand here between a little stream
and two angelic stones
in danger of being misinterpreted
it delights my memory to recall those
four or five sentences
that I have to ponder
being as I am their only judge
and from the washbasin
water of beauty and filth overflows
while a man sings with baritonal voice
but without anguish
or historical remorse
a sing-song for his faithless
hopeless outcry
an outcry for love
which justifies his life
by paying three shillings a month
but, where is my mother?
I remember leaving her seated in hushed solitude
in a beautiful garden
wearing her blue flowery housedress
still capable of defending her pockets
with the brave determination of an orphan
and to break without any scheme
other’s coherence
oh! she is where I thought she was.
In spite of death in spite of silence
imposed on her by a marble condition,
look how she lifts on me the cerulean glance
of her torn face
and smiles, blows a kiss
as if kissing the air.
Erminia Passannanti
27 July 2001
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